The Spirit of Fire
by Virodeil
Summary: For Teitho March 2010. A puzzle story. He was Mithlen now. A star but grey instead of silver; ashes from the redness of the burning coals. He was no longer red and silver and burning, but grey and grey and redeeming.


Title: The Spirit of Fire

Author: AiedailWing

Genre: PG-13/K+

Warnings: AU, dark undertone, a little disturbing in some parts

Notes: (All right. Actually an extention of the warnings; for the first, at least.) This story is a mixture between guessing game and connecting-the-dots. Translation is provided in the end of the story, as well as some other notes. I apologise in advance if then there are still questions I do not answer (or not satisfactorily), in the story or the end notes. The form of the story is a collection of drabblish sections, by the way, and the changing of the names or terms or tones signifies the changing of point of view or perception.

* * *

The small vessel pulled into port, gaining some incredulous stares from the sailors and fishermen working nearby. A simple grey sloop, coming right from the Great Sea, and it was manned only by one – cloaked and hooded – person. Some thought themselves crazy, while others dismissed the scene as a strange apparition of a man lost in the sea, but the rest approached the matter more seriously and cautiously.

Yet, regardless of all, the person in the sloop signalled for leave to moor his vessel in the nearest pier, and his wish was granted. Círdan himself met the mysterious sailor, and they adjourned into his office. The onlookers did not see him again for a long time. Most of them never realised who he was when he did come back to reclaim his sloop and sail away, back to where he had come from.

*

Endorë. He had never stepped on this soil before, so near to the birthplace of his people… But he did not come to pay homage to the land, nor to wander about aimlessly as a giddy tourist. He had put a task upon his own shoulders, and he intended to see it to the end.

No one recognised him save the lord of the sea haven he had arrived at. Said lord called him with another name then, a name given by his mother and recognised by all, but he deferred and said that he was Mithlen now. A star but grey instead of silver, ashes from the redness of the burning coals. He was no longer red and silver and burning, but grey and grey and redeeming, and this time he had to earn back his light.

He departed the haven armed with a detailed map littered with notes, some knowledge of the current situations throughout the continent, and a kiss on the forehead – a blessing – from a grandfather he had never met before.

*

He journeyed on foot through established roads and less-travelled paths. His cloak and its hood never failed to cover him, even when he was sleeping. The provisions in his pack were nearly untouched, as he usually scoured and hunted for his meals and took water from streams and springs he found on the way.

But he spent the travel not in idle. Meticulously, he observed the wildlife around him and the traffic on the road, and even took some time asking for news and information from fellow travellers in their own language – Westron. The map given to him while in Mithlond was a constant and – more often than not – trusty companion and guide to him, as he consulted it during the nights by his small fire after a day full of asking, observing and thinking. He memorised the general layout of Eriador in the first night, and consulted the map only by habit and for comfort in the end of the week.

*

It was year 3000 of the Third Age. Trouble encroached almost everywhere he went. Small but proficient patrols of Men who called themselves Rangers of the North tried to fend off orcs and wargs and ruffians from the simple people, but they did not always succeed. Here and there, travellers on the road were ambushed and robbed; sometimes killed. The defenders were too few and scattered…

He helped them whenever they permitted him to, going by the name Mithlen. They never saw his face, nor what weapons he had. Constant coaxing and bribing and threatening only drove him away from them, so, in just a short time, they learnt not to ask him to take off his hood and cloak.

*

"I am an enemy of Sauron and his minions." The affirmation, alongside his skills in battle, gave testimony to his allegiance. The repetitive performance of his assistance confirmed it to them, and soon he became their friend. For the first time in his two lifetimes, he truly felt that he belonged to a community. He trained the youths, entertained the children with stories of a forgotten past in lost realms, helped in collecting firewood for the households… He did not forget who he was, or why he had come to this war-torn land in the first place, but he could not help from gaining some hope and his old confidence back.

On the fifth year, he departed the North, hoping to venture out in the South, East and West. The Dúnedain – as they called themselves – gave him knowledge and gifts to aid him in his wandering. But most of all, they gave him their friendship and a home to return to, should he wish to return.

And they gave him their trust as well. He met their chieftain for the first time on the day of his departure, and Aragorn explained to him about the Man's heritage, which had been as well-guarded as himself against non-Dúnedain.

*

Gondor was too stilted. Rohan was too clustered. There was no way for him to aid them without being included in their ranks, which he wished to avoid. The Rangers of the North had given him free rein on almost everything, and he had never abused the trust. Why were these Men suspicious of him, then? Was it because of their structured communities? It could not be because their lands bordered one of Sauron's strongholds, could it? There were dark places littering the North, but its people were not this paranoid.

Rumors flew in the wilds of him: of his defending a homestead in Eastfold about to be ransacked by rogue Dúnlandings, his saving a group of weary soldiers from ambush by the orcs, his escorting a caravan of distraught women and children from their ruined village… A silent but trusty shadow, they said, never staying and never asking for payment of his aid. But what could he ask from them? What would he ask of them? He felt guilty, instead, for trying to use these kind deeds to cleanse his conscience from the horrors he had wrought in his first lifetime. He did these not for them, but for himself.

*

Whether by chance or by fate, he met one whom people called Gandalf or Mithrandir in the middle of the year 3017. He was called by another name then, but insisted on Mithlen. They did not speak about it again, yet instead about the looming war, alike yet unlike the one where Morgoth had been overthrown. "This may be what your feeling purposed to lead you to," said the disguised Maia, and he agreed.

But he was tired now, more than ever. To no Elven realm he had dared to go, although he yearned for his own kindred. But who would receive him, a Kinslayer? The fire of his spirit had burnt low, battling with the years of lonesome self-exile, and this he had not realised before, in the ferver of trying to redeem himself – to cleanse himself. And ironically, the notion that he might have to go to Imladris – one of the last Firstborn havens left this side of the Sea – did not appeal to him; it only made him more weary.

All the same, a task was a task, and he meant to complete it.

*

"Who are you, Sir?"

"I am called Mithlen. Are you the master of this… hole?"

"No, Sir. Am but a gardener for Mr. Frodo's gardens, Sir, and you're sitting on my sack of seedlings."

"Would you please call your master over here? Oh – I am sorry about the sack. Here – But who are you yourself?"

"Not to be rude, Sir, but Mr. Frodo's said not to disturb him. If you tell me what's a Big Folk – and a cloaked one at that – got to do with him, though…"

"Tell him I am on… errand… from the Grey Wizard. Tell him that everything in the outside world is growing worse and he has to… hurry… with his burden away from here."

A gasp. A squeak. Nervous muttering.

"Sir, who are you, Sir? What do you know of Mr. Frodo's burden, Sir? Can't let you in, Sir, and you'd better go now, Sir."

A sad chuckle.

"Master Halfling, that sack would not hurt me, but it would you. Please, I beg of you, tell your master that. I would not fail my friend—" `—and myself—` "—if I could help it."

"Fine. Fine. But you'll get Samwise Gamgee to answer to if me find you lying."

"I accept."

*

Trying to herd four hobbits through the countryside with rationed provisions was not a burden to look down upon, at all. And he, in his old arrogance, had thought it easy. How he rued it now… He would have railed at those hapless Halflings along the way, were it not for Sauron's chief servants somehow sniffing their track, and subsequently pursuing them through the woods and plains and streams and fens. It was hard to guard four inexperienced and innocent laid-back short-legged travellers while hurrying their weary feet down the rough terrains. The reason? He was tempted to succumb and slow their run.

It was not that they met no one friendly during their bleak flight, though. The hobbits were glad to take a night's respite among a company of Elven wanderers, despite their saying that they would not accompany the five to Imladris. Only that, they looked at him quite suspiciously, and Gildor their leader nearly recognised him…

The only silver lining in the journey, for him, was when they came across a patrol of Rangers headed by Aragorn himself. They offered to accompany the five to Imladris, but he demurred, saying that the smaller their company was, the faster and easier they ran. But, at least, there he was received warmly… and recognised just as Mithlen the shadowy wanderer. He did not deserve his name yet—

And a small voice in him said that he was ashamed of it, of what he had done under that name.

*

They arrived safely at Imladris, thankfully, although very exhausted from the chase. The Halflings were received well by the Elves and even praised for their endurance. As for himself…

He had never expected the ambush, nor did he have the energy to dodge it. Worse, the culprit was only one Elf… and said Elf was one of the few that he had wished to evade here in Endorë.

"Laurefindil Vórimanga Ingwion."

His ambusher, now pinning him against the balcony railing of the room Elrond had given him with his weight and a hand, smiled wrily.

"You asked it yourself, cousin," the golden-haired Elf said as he flicked the hood away from his helpless captive with his free hand. Their eyes met, bright cornflower-blue against vivid steel-grey. "Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion."

*

The night was long, filled with conversations about the past, present and future. One conducted it while lying sprawled on the bed, and the other perched on a windowsill nearby. It only let up somewhat when dawn was approaching.

"How is Mother and Father?"

"Aunt Anwë is fine, and grumbling about your returning here. I did not speak with Uncle Ingwë… yet."

"I must, and she knew it; they all knew it. The Powers asked me to come here. What about you? You always evaded the subject."

"And so did you." Pause, then softly, "I just… It was only a feeling, that I had to do something here, something useful. I…"

A murmur. "You were rejected there?"

Fëanáro coiled himself around a pillow and hid his face underneath it, not deigning to answer. Laurefindil forsook the windowsill and hopped onto the bed, right to his cousin's side – or rather, back. The silence had been an enough answer for the both of them.

*

"You were so blasé about everything. You piqued everyone, you know."

"What could I do? What could I say? It was not really my problem; it is not." Pause. "Nothing is, now, almost wherever I am."

"But you said it was a task for you, which you brought on yourself, to help see this land out of tyranny. You began it too, by escorting the Halflings here."

"See there? You said it yourself. My job is to guard, not to decide on anything in any way or form."

"It felt… forced, somehow, and odd. It is as if I no longer know who you are, even though you retain your physical looks and speech and most of your personality from when we were children. And… you do all this on purpose. Do you?"

Silence.

"You fear that you would seek to command everyone and bring everyone to their doom, do you not? You are afraid that the curses piled on you would betray you, if given a chance, and everyone too."

Silence.

"What? Not even a smart retort for me? You have indeed changed, cousin! And I do not know should I mourn or rejoice."

Pause. A bitter smile. Tightly: "Just give me your blessings when we depart. Therefore you have to neither mourn nor rejoice."

*

They departed just after the Midwinter festival: a company of nine and one. They braved perils together and helped each other when needed, yet votes remained nine – and sometimes meals too. They beat back the wargs and cheered. They hurried down Caradhras and cursed. They escaped Moria and mourned. But in this Mithlen retained a hope, for he alone among them knew the nature of Ainur and the workings of Mandos. Olórin would return. He spread it to the nine, gently but persistently, convincingly and without giving any blatant reason. And for it he mourned, since it appeared that his old skills had not deserted him: those that had led his people to madness, cruelty and harm.

A group of border guards intersected their path into Lothlórien and escorted them, blindfolded, into the hidden realm. But Mithlen they bound and gagged as well, and ushered before others to the presence of their rulers.

Artanis, one whom people here called Galadriel, recognised him, but said nothing. She asked that he be led to her private gardens and left there, and the guards complied.

He had never been this nervous before, not since his childhood fostering himself in Alqualondë under Lord Olwë's House.

*

"This is not yet the end of the world, is it?"

"He released me early. Prophecies are precise predictions about events in the future, he said, but one no longer worked as in the vision. I am too much like a Man, he said, changing things. Neither of us wanted to believe this theory."

"You were not offended?"

"What for? It was the fact."

"You are… changed… Uncle."

"Uncle now?" Sad laugh. "Have I gained that honour, Artanis?"

"I am now Alatariel." Pause. "You are not the person I knew. Calling you so just… came naturally now. You did not behave like an uncle at all. You look so young, though. I thought people are reborn as adults, not children…"

"Oh. You could even be truly reborn, as in occupying your mother's womb and being delivered after twelve months. Some choose that, he said, and others choose to occupy an adult's body. I chose to be reborn as a one-year-old."

"But – Your caretaker—"

"My mother."

Dead silence.

"Lady Míriel… So it was true? She was reborn? But the Doom—"

"—Was… rethought. Mother persisted. Father persisted. I persisted… I think Father felt guilty, hence his endeavour. I was just being stubborn and kept pestering the people in charge there. Mother… wanted to see the world again. I never knew how young she was when she died. Father was twice her age!"

"No one knew who your mother was; only that she was the only Teler-looking person among the Noldor who were shipped to Aman."

"I know." Then, very quietly, "She was really a Teler. She went because of my father." Bitter. "Her mother was not long gone, ambushed alongside some others by orcs and fell spirits. She left her father for mine… or rather, for his charm and promises."

"Uncle! But you loved your father beyond others… Now I see that your tongue could still be as sharp and cruel as in the old days."

"I poured the love I should have given for two to only one. But, truthfully, some of it was not really love. There was obsession in there as well, and possessiveness."

"So… you live with your mother now? Do Grandfather Finwë and Grandmother Indis stay together? Or were they estranged like…" Pause. "Who is your maternal grandfather? Is he still alive? Where did he stay? Where does he live?"

"Oh my. And I thought everyone was lying about your inquisitiveness. You are just like one of those Halflings!"

*

The night was peaceful, but the two Elves were not. They sat in the small clearing in Artanis' – Alatariel's – garden and stared unseeingly at the Mirror Pond. Only when the darkness deepened did they speak to each other, at last.

"It troubled you."

"It did, for a long time. I am surprised it did not have any effect on you."

"Oh. It did. It tempted me just as persistently."

A sharp intake of breath. "What… What did it promise you?"

"The Silmarili, the world, a good marriage life for my parents with each other, a way to return to the past to better everything… It became more and more silly. Then I laughed, and it stopped."

"Just… that?"

A sad murmur. "I have nothing left, although many things are always in my mind. It tried to get to me through those things."

"But Uncle, you still have… many things."

"Do I?"

Silence.

"His prediction was true, Laurefassë. I am a Dispossessed. Mithlen I am called now."

"No. You chose it for yourself. What use is this self-exile when you have changed indeed, Uncle?" Then, softly, almost childishly, "Why did you call me 'tangled golden locks'? I am no longer that little girl Mother and her handmaidens chased down the streets of Tirion and Alqualondë."

"Oh. You still are, if given a chance."

"And so are you."

*

The nine were down to eight in Parth Galen, and then to six. Boromir the Man was tempted by the Ring they had been guarding and tried to seize it from the Ringbearer's neck. Frodo fled with his servant San with a boat to the eastern shore, to Mordor, while Boromir was down trying to repent for his deed. The Gondorian warrior attempted to safeguard the path of flight for the two hobbits, as well as to keep the ambushing orcs from kidnapping the other two. He only succeeded with the former.

But their shadowy companion fled, after helping the remaining three bring down the straggling members of the orc band. Sauron had spotted him, at last, and the Fallen Maia was intent on capturing him – alive. What the three knew, however, was only that he had to go on another errand as urgent as rescuing the hobbits from the orcs, given the nearly-nonexistent time to explain. Their parting, thus, was less than pleasant, and Mithlen was forced to go on another self-exile with bitter feelings.

Sadly, wherever he went, he brought ruin with him, as Sauron could see him as clearly as a torch in the dark – or so the Fallen Maia taunted him. He lost just as many battles as he won them. But, in the end, what truly defeated him was his fëa's weariness and the accumulating poison that he could no longer drive back or counter, that came from the various tainted blades and arrowheads wounding him throughout the seemingly-endless fights.

*

"You are—"

"Whoa! You're that fellow from Bilbo's stories about the Elves from the Old Age who burnt ships and brought them here from the Lands of the Gods? Or was it otherwise?"

"Pippin! I'm sorry—"

"He was right."

"Sir?"

"We lost then. But now we won. Morgoth was not overthrown, but now Sauron was."

"Sir?"

"I… redeemed myself. I tried to."

"Sir?"

"I did not mean to leave them then, to search for the both of you alone. It was… I felt like betraying my kin all over again. But now it is all in the past, and you know why I left them – left you all – at that time. I… can only ask for your forgiveness."

"You are forgiven, Sir. You have been. You heard us all."

A weak chuckle. "I still think I betrayed you, though. I probably have to go on a quest for redemption again when I am reborn. That is, if Lord Námo would let me go."

"Sir!"

"You're just as stubborn as Pippin here."

"Merry!"

Mithlen, now Fëanáro again, laughed softly as the two hobbits chased each other around him. None of them had come out of the war unscathed, but this warm and loving frivolity was worth the sacrifice. Their lights rekindled his, even though only in the end. But perhaps, with such strength of friendship, if not loyalty, his own fire would endure to the end of Arda regardless of everything?

*

The grey sloop drifted slowly away from the port, sailing on gentle breeze. The cloaked and hooded sailor in it bowed to the cluster of people standing solemnly on the pier. But just on the edge of Elven sight, he vanished from view and did not reappear again.

The waves rocked him like his mother had, lulling him, comforting him. It was so tempting to just sleep, to slip away…

"Curufinwë Fëanáro."

The bright grey eyes looked up, meeting those of darker shade. Fëanáro smiled slightly. "Lord. Are you here to take me home?"

"Insolent child. You have never been able to curb this particular trait of yours, eh?" But the Vala was smiling as well. "As for your question: No, I am not here to take you home. The task remains in the purview of my brothers Manwë and Ulmo… thankfully."

They shared a laugh, but Fëanáro was too weakened to keep it up. The temptation to sleep returned, but this time he did not fight it. His chest rose slowly, down again, and then stilled.

The body, stripped of all garments and accessories, was given to the sea. An identical one occupied its former place and clothing, the spirit in it deep in repose. Námo smiled wrily. It seemed that, after all, he had to take his charge back home. At least, it was not in the sense that said charge had meant. The horror of a distraught but persistently-pestering mother, finding that her runaway child was dead, delivered by someone who could have prevented it…

* * *

Translation:

Anwë: (Quenya, literally) "Real/True" One

Endorë: (Quenya) Middle-Earth

Fëanáro: (Quenya) Spirit of Fire; Sindarin: Fëanor

Finwion: (patronymic) son of Finwë

Ingwion: (patronymic) son of Ingwë

Laurefassë: (Quenya, literally) Golden Tangled Hair

Laurefindil: (Quenya) Golden-haired Elf; Sindarin: Glorfindel

Mithlen: (Sindarin) Grey Star

Mithlond: (Sindarin) the Grey Havens

Olórin: (Quenya) Dreamer; another name of Gandalf

Vórimanga: (Quenya) Steadfast Iron

End Notes:

In my universe, Míriel Þerendë is a Teler (Her silver hair and petite figure inspired that idea in my mind.) and the daughter of Círdan. Glorfindel is the son of Ingwë and Anwë (my OFC, the older sister of Finwë), hence his relation to Fëanor. (This was also inspired by the little things I found in the Silmarilion, namely his golden hair and bravery – and that includes his defying the Doom of Mandos by forging on through the Grinding Ice. The Vanyar were known for their passivity and obedience to the Valar…)

The story ran away from the set plotline, so I am sorry if reading this was not a pleasant experience for you. I intended it to be more than a one-shot, but it should suffice for now. And now you see how I cannot still fight back the temptation of linking almost every known character in Tolkien's universe with each other… Heheh. Sorry. It was too great a temptation…


End file.
